Bride of fire
by Roheline
Summary: It had come full circle. A Targaryen held the Iron Throne once more. Cersei was dead. Yet this was nothing like she imagined. [Jon x Dany post season 6. Rated M from Chapter 7 onward.]
1. Chapter 1

**_Disclaimer:_** _**I own absolutely nothing, this is just for fun.**_

ooo.

It had come full circle. A Targaryen held the Iron Throne once more. Cersei, the Mad Queen, was dead. Slayed by her own brother. Yet this was nothing like Dany imagined. Yes, she was queen.

 _Queen of bones and blood and ashes._

 _Queen of murder, thievery and rape._

 _Queen of civil war._

Sometimes, it felt like _this_ was all she'd been destined to do. _Fight._ She'd faught Warlocks and slave Masters. The Khals and the Lannister Queen. And still, the kingdom wasn't entirely hers. She had the Capital and the South. She had the Iron Islands under Yara's rule, although Euron Greyjoy was a constant threat. But everything north — her small hands fisted in anger and she whirled around to her Hand.

"I should ride North and _obtain_ their submission," Daenerys hissed, "with fire and blood, if need be!"

"I see," Tyrion began, pondering calmly while he emptied his wine glass, "Let's be generous and assume you manage to conquer Winterfell," the Imp continued, "although marching 1,000 miles through _WINTER_ makes it nearly impossible, but let's say you do," Tyrion's mismatched eyes stopped and fixed the young Queen, "It would be pointless." Dany's confused frown urged him to continue. "The North cannot be held, your Grace! Not by an outsider. It's too big and too wild!"

"The North must be dealt with!"

"Indeed it must," Tyrion admitted. "But _diplomacy_ will spare you all sorts of troubles down the road. My Queen," he pleaded, reaching Dany's side, "conquerors are rarely loved. If you want to build a stable order, you must win the support of the Great Houses and their Lords."

"Their Lords?!" Dany's brows lifted and an ironic tone tinged her question. " _What_ Great Lords...?! The Reach has none, now that the Tyrells are essentially extinguished. The Riverlands belonged to House Frey, but I hear Old Walder is dead and so are his sons. The Stormlands have no lord either — all the Baratheons are dead. And I already have the support of the _relevant_ Lannister."

"—yet three Great Lords remain: Robin Arryn, Lord of the Vale. Euron Greyjoy, of the Iron Islands and Jon Snow, the King in the North!

"A child. A filthy **_pirate!_** And —"

" —the second. most powerful. lord in Westeros," Tyrion finished for her, stressing every word. "He is governing over half the landmass now, and possibly more if the Vale remains with him." Daenerys turned and looked away annoyed, refusing to acknowledge the obvious. "He is a powerful man, Your Grace. From a powerful House."

"He's the spawn of _t_ _he usurper's dogs_..." Dany corrected, snorting her disdain.

"Usurpers or not, they're the ones with the taxes that will fund a government. They own cities. Ports. Navies. A successful ruler has to give them a place at the table." Dany took her Hand's words well salted, but the truth in them could not to be denied. Conquering the Seven Kingdoms was nothing like conquering cities. "Your Grace," Tyrion insisted, "the Starks are not your enemy."

"How can you say that?" she whirled around. "Have you even met this Jon Snow?"

Tyrion smiled at the irony. "I have, your Grace. It feels as if it was in another life, but I've met him."

Dany's interest pricked up. As of late, she'd been secretly wondering about this king in the North. The way people talked about him, he was the greatest swordsman since Arthur Dayne."

"You met him?" she inquired a little surprised, "And did you find him as _great_ as they say he is?"

"He is ..." Tyrion stopped and pondered before speaking, "...honorable. That above all, just like his father. He's intelligent, a skilled fighter," the Hand continued, "—yet not the most cautions of men."

 _When were men cautious?_ Dany wondered, wordlessly turning away from her adviser. "What else?"

"Varys tells me he _rose_ to his title and won the North's loyalty by fighting valiantly and doing the right thing. No matter the circumstances. It says a lot about a bastard boy, born in the South, don't you think?"'

"I think I should see this Jon Snow with my own eyes before making up my mind."

* * *

The day was grey and bitter cold. A heavy snow fell from the sky, but it fell slowly, and the wind had died. Jon took a breath of the crisp morning air and allowed himself a moment of peace. He was tired. _So very tired._ Ruling the North was tenuous at best: rounding up his men, manning all the castles, fixing up the abandoned ones.

The southern war had become irrelevant for him. With the night gathering, the true threat lied north. He'd sent two dozen men scouting for any sign of wights, trying to anticipate their assault. The bloodiest battle had yet to be fought Jon knew it and he dreaded it, for it meant more killing. And he'd done so much killing, it pained him to look back.

He'd killed wilddlings, whites and brothers of the Night's Watch. Men that he admired. He'd hanged a boy. _A boy younger than Bran!_ And still, the nightmare was far from being over. "Jon?" the clear voice of his sister pulled him out of his thoughts. His eyes found hers and quickly registered the concern they tried to hide.

"What is it, Sansa?" Her fingers were clutching a small scroll.

"News..." she began with a faint smile.

"From Kingslanding?"

The young woman nodded. "From the Queen," Sansa clarified and her brows lifted slightly, "Deanerys Targaryen." Jon listened silently, the same concern now shadowing his eyes too.

 _Lannister, Targaryen, Baratheon, Stark._ They were all just spokes on a wheel. One was on top, then another, and another. On and on it spun, crushing those on the ground. His burned fingers closed into a fist and Ghost loped silently beside his master, leaving paw prints on the ground. His steaming breath warmed Jon's hand.

"She rides for Winterfell as we speak," his sister added then turned to look upon the frost covered fields. The wind swirled around them, stirring their heavy cloaks, while they stood, facing the snowy vastness.

"If she's coming this far north, there's only one thing she's after." More than anything, Jon sounded resolute. He knew this moment would come.

"What will you do?" Just by hearing Sansa's tone Jon could tell she understood the complexity of the situation, "Brother, we can't give up the North—"

"—we can't afford to fight her either," Jon pointed out, meeting her blue eyes. They made him soften his manner "There's only one thing we can do. Try to reason with her."

"I hear Tyrion Lannister is counseling her," Sansa informed, soft and curiously calm, turning towards the fields again. "This might work in our favor. This, and the winter that's finally here."

Jon looked up and smiled at the falling snow. Winter was not something to look forward to, less so in the North. But in the depths of their hardship, his younger sister seamed to have found strength and wisdom.

Seeing him, Sansa smiled too, and for a moment they were just two siblings bonding over a shared burden. The situation was tough indeed, but after so much time, they finally had each other to weather the coming storm. Winter had resumed it's reign, but so did the Starks in Winterfell.

That night Jon tossed for hours before sliding down into a nightmare. Ever since the Red Woman had worked her magic on him, what little sleep he managed to get was often plagued by nightmares. This time, he dreamed of a battle that turned the hills of Westeros as red as blood. He was in the midst of it, dealing death with a fiery sword. One that glowed red and yellow and orange, alive with light. The Wall itself had turned red, as waves of color danced across the ice.

 _Fire._

He dreamed of fire.

 _Fire and blood._


	2. Chapter 2 - A cure for haughtiness

**Hey there, my dear readers!**  
 **45 follows for one chapter? You guys rock!  
Thank you for following and faving this story, but most importantly, thank you for taking the time to leave a review. Those of you who write surely understand just how motivating and rewarding a little review is. So a special "thank you" goes to Alexis-20011, Lovely, SwaggyStiles, Xan-merrick and Acamil. Keep the love coming and don't hesitate to make suggestions!  
** **Without further ado, here it is - chapter two :)**

 ** _Disclaimer:_** _**I own absolutely nothing, this is just for fun.**_

* * *

The morning had dawned clear, cold and crisp. A faint wind blew through the holdfast gate, stirring the white banners of House Stark. Above the walls of Winterfell, grey direwolves raced once again across an ice-white field, while visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of black and red. Ahead of them, Jon recognized the stunted little man.

 _Tyrion Lannister._ Hand of the Queen.

For those able to see past the jester, the drunken dwarf was an intellectual force to be reckoned with. Jon had known him, briefly. He'd thought him clever and charismatic, far more than what people gossiped of him. He'd even called him friend. Now, as he watched him approach, it was hard to believe the little man had had it in him to murder his own father.

"So ... _bastard_ ," Tyrion began with with a jaunty grin. " _King in the North_ is it?!"

A slight smile broke across Jon's face, remembering their previous encounters.

"Life is full of little ironies, isn't it?" Jon replied and their laughter steamed in the cold air. "It's good to see you've arrived safely my—"

Suddenly, a shadow swept over the castle yard, blacker than any passing cloud and a hot wind whipped across their faces. A loud roar boomed in the sky, silencing every single man. They all looked up, uneasily, none daring to speak. A dragon had come. _Drogon,_ the black scaled, and on its back the young Targaryen woman - Daenerys Stormborn.

Her beast flew high above, awaiting, and soon an answering roar shook the very foundations of Winterfell. Two more winged shapes appeared: the white Visarion, and his brother Rhegal, green and bronze and fierce. The sight of the three dragons took the very heart out of most men. But not Jon.

He watched unblinking, his eyes going from one majestic creature to another. The unmounted ones circled low before coming to rest on top of the castle's battlements, spreading their wings wide and glancing down knowingly. They held a savage beauty and a power that filled him with awe.

Finally, urged on by its rider, the black beast landed with a crash amongst them. Razor-sharp talons raked the frozen ground and Jon could see the hard scales of it's chest, the strong muscles moving beneath. Smoldering eyes studied him for a moment, and then the black shadow stretched out his neck to sniff at him.

"It seems you captured his attention too."

The small voice caught him by surprise and Jon's attention turned to the young woman. Short of stature, but _very_ beautiful, she had the silver-blonde hair and purple eyes of House Targaryen. Ygritte had been pretty, in her own way, with the red hair and lively smile, but this woman did not need to smile. She would have turned men's heads in any court in the wide world. The realization twisted in Jon like a knife, while she stood still and careless, as if she had been carved of stone. Yet she looked warm and soft with snowflakes melting in her hair and on her cheeks.

"Your Grace," he said with chilly courtesy, slightly bowing his head. "We've been expecting you."

* * *

 ** _Some time later. Winterfell's council room._**

"The northerners are proud people," Jon argued, looking down the council table, "Let them keep their pride, Your Grace and they will love you for it." For the last hour, Jon had been trying to reason with the dragon Queen. But it seamed pointless. Daenerys would not listen: neither to him, nor to her Hand.

"I do not desire northern _kisses_ , Sire," her purple eyes fixed him with an obstinate defiance, "Only northern submission." _Damn her!_ Jon's hand opened and closed, flexing the burned fingers beneath the leather glove. _Careful now, keep calm._ "You ask too much, my Lady."

" _Ask?"_ Danys' brows rose incredulous, "I do not _ask,_ Lord Snow. _I demand_ your yielding," she corrected, pushing her hair back. Everything about her screamed arrogance - from the stiff back and proud angle of her head, to the insolent air in which she trailed her eyes.

"My yielding?" Jon glared angrily, yet when he spoke again, his voice was quiet and cold. "Your Grace," he said, managing to leash in his temper, "I have welcomed you here. Housed your men and fed your beasts, but do not take my hospitality for meekness."

The Queen listened, her face still behind the emotionless mask of politics. Despite his cold ways, this wolf-king had an edge to him. It was hidden underneath the surface, waiting to come out.

"I am King because my bannermen put their faith in me _,"_ he continued unwavering, _"_ I never asked for it, never wanted it. If I fought, I fought for my sister's honor and our home. Nevertheless, the northern Lords _chose me._ Bending the knee would not only be an insult to them. It would be an insult to the very idea of choosing a King out of free will."

For a few moments, the two rulers silently studying each other. _He is bold enough,_ Dany realized. _And smart._ Silence hung between them for another moment, then Dany spoke, in a measured voice:

"I understand the importance of _choosing_ a leader, but..." she stopped and fixed him with those eyes of hers, "If the people of Westeros see you as an alternative to my rule, they could rally behind you."

"An alternative?!" Jon was dumbstruck. Was that Iron Throne all she thought about? "Your Grace, my duties are here in the north. I have no wish to—"

"—that's irrelevant!" Dany cut in hotly, "Whether you wield it yourself or not, your claim could undermine mine." That was the final drop. Jon's face grew dark with anger and for a splitting second Daenerys saw what lied beneath the calm surface. _Something fierce._

"Keep your bloody throne!" his voice blazed, "Do you think I care about the squabbling of a few houses, while the true threat gathers beyond the Wall?!"

"True threat?" Daenerys snapped around to her Hand, "What is he talking about?"

"I can show you!" Jon replied before Tyrion had time to speak, "That is, if you're not afraid to follow me."

For a moment Daenerys hesitated. Was he setting a trap? Did he wish her harm? _No. Not under his roof. The Old Gods would curse him…_ So she rose her chin and met his glare defiantly, "Afraid?" disdain tainted her lovely smile, "A dragon is _never_ afraid."

"Good," came the reply. Short, simple, unimpressed. Jon kept his face a mask, ignoring the fiery girl and her very bad temper, "Sansa?!"

Beckoned, the young Lady Stark entered the council room and Jon pushed himself to his feet. Her blue eyes quickly scanned the place and rested upon Tyrion's in a silent greeting. _Sweet, soft-spoken Sansa_. He'd hoped to see her again. To see her well.

"Is is done, sister?" The willowy redhead nodded discreetly. "It is all prepared."

"Your Grace," Jon glanced back at Dany's face, before turning around, "If you'd follow me!"

Tyrion rose to join them too, but Sansa reached his side and whispered. "This is between the two of them. But rest assured. No harm will come to your Queen. You have my word."

* * *

Another woman would've thought twice before following him into the dark corridor, but not Daenerys. She walked boldly by his side, her head held high, fearless. Were it not for her arrogance, he might have even considered her appealing. But her sense of entitlement was off puting. They stopped in front a wooden door. Slowly, Jon grabbed the handle and pulled it inward.

The creak of the hinges sounded almost ominous to Dany. And the cold... When had it gotten so cold?

Inside, heavy drapes obscured the windows. A small candle burned by the door, but it's flickering light could not push back the darkness. Dany stopped in the doorway, giving her eyes a moment to adjust. She felt her heart pounding and, for a few moments, she even considered turning back. _F_ _oolish weakness. I am blood of the Dragon!_

So she stepped inside. "What is the meaning of this?" she asked, turning around. At this point, she was trembling, violently. _Why is it so cold?_ she kept asking herself and then she saw it. A shadow among shadows, sliding toward them. She backed away involuntarily, staring at the ... at the ... _B_ _y all Gods! What is that?_

She felt Jon's hand close roughly over her upper arm as he steered her aside _._ Then the man threw himself forward, bringing down the longsword with all his weight behind it. The steel bit deep and hard, shearing through skin and bone, slashing an entire arm. But the sound that filled the room was wrong. Deeply wrong.

Dany watched in horror as the slashed arm kept writhing on the floor, fingers opening and closing. The abomination lurched forward and Jon slashed at it again, unwavering. His sword cut it open from cheek to neck, but there was no blood. _No blood._ One-armed, face nearly cut in half, it seemed to feel nothing. It kept coming for them.

"Kill it!" she commanded, with terror, "Kill it at once!"

"But, Your Grace!" the northerner turned and watched her for what felt like the longest moment "Can't you see?" his tone was mocking, " _It's already dead!_ " When realization hit her, Dany tried to shout, but her voice was gone. He was right. _He was right!_ The arm thrashed on the floor, wriggling toward her. _Lifeless. Decayed. Dead!_ "Jon!" she finally manage to shout.

Registering her fear, Jon reached for the lamp and threw it into the wight. Metal crunched, glass shattered, and the monster lit up in a great whoosh of flame. The heat of it felt sweeter than any kiss Dany had ever known.

"Are you well, Your Grace?" with a swift motion, Jon slid the sword back into it's silver-banded scabbard.

"A dead man tried to kill me." Daenerys stood reactionless, watching the flames. "How well could I be?"

 _Gone is her mighty arrogance now_. Jon lowered his head somewhat amused, but immediately felt petty for it. _This is a frightened woman,_ he chided himself, a _girl._ She had somehow softened in his eyes. Perhaps it was the way she reacted that made her seem less of mystical conqueror and more human.

"As I told Her Grace," he continued, "the real threat lies beyond the Wall."

Getting a grip on herself Daenerys turned fully to him. "What happens if these monsters cross the Wall?" Her lovely eyes searched Jon's ardently and he noticed they held genuine concern.

"They will kill," he answered, "by the hundreds and thousands. And then the dead will rise, with black hands and pale blue eyes..."

"...to come for us all," she finished.

* * *

 **Soooo? How was it? Good, bad, meah? Let me know if I got anything wrong. Also, is anyone interested in being my beta for this story?  
I could use the help, so let me know if you're interested. Until next time,  
XoXo  
Roheline**


	3. Chapter 3 - An offer is made

**Hey there you guys!**  
 **Love you all so much, for the lovely reviews I received on the previous chapter. You have all my gratitude for your support. I'm also happy to see so many new readers aboard this story.**  
 **Now, I admit I'm not happy with this new chapter..I had a bit of trouble with it, [ a beta would have been great...] but it is what it is. A needed "bridge" to what is to come.**

* * *

"It was..." Dany's voice faltered, "...a thing crawled out of nightmares." If she closed her eyes she could see it still: the severed hand writhing, fingers opening and closing. The dead man's gashed and swollen face, ropes of torn flesh hanging. And no blood. _Not a single drop._ Chilled to the bone, she clutched her lion pelt to her chest. It was too big for her and had a musty smell, but she always felt safer wrapped in Drogo's lionskin.

Tyrion listened quietly, swirling the wine in his cup. _"_ I always thought they were the stuff of legends," he confessed, remembering how he had mocked Jon Snow when talking about the Wall and the Others. "I thought them tall tales that old women whisper by the fire." The imp stared eerily into his goblet while he stirred the red liquid inside, as if it kept some deep, dark secret.

Daenerys watched him across the table. "What is it?" she inquired evenly, finally shrugging off the lion pelt. Of all the rooms in Winterfell's Great Keep, she'd been granted the hottest. The late Lady Stark's rooms. Scalding waters from the underground hot springs rushed through the walls, driving the chill from the stones and filling the air with a moist warmth. "I can hear you thinking from here, Lord Lannister!" she explained "You're always saying something, even when you keep your mouth shut."

Tyrion gave a crooked smile. _Clever_ _girl._ She never ceased to amaze him. "I was thinking that these aren't bad news entirely." He stopped, took a sip of his wine, then set his cup aside. Dany waited in silence, but her eyes burned with bright curiosity. "The King in the North needs your army and dragons," the Hand pointed out, "You need to remove his threat to your claim... " silence hung in the air for a moment, "There might be a way to obtain what you want, Your Grace."

The Queen's eyes narrowed down intently, "You mean ...let him fight those monsters alone? No! No one will be left to die. You are all my people. That's —"

"— _not_ what I had in mind." Tyrion finished for her in a slightly chiding tone. But it was nice to see his Queen dismiss such cruel option decidedly. "I was thinking that his claim and yours could become one." Although her face didn't show it, Dany's heart gave a lurch. "Your Grace has proven in Mereen, that she can put her feelings aside and make a political match."

 _A political match._ She'd left Mereen aware of this possibility, but hoped it wouldn't come to it. The prospect of another loveless marriage left a bitter taste on her tongue. "You'd have me take Jon Snow as a husband?" There was no emotion in her voice, no emotion on her features either. She uttered the phrse mindfully, making sure of it.

"The highborn will not look kindly to a Queen who comes to conquer their lands..." Tyrion explained, "But if she were to marry a Westerosi Lord... If she were to adapt to Westerosi society as much as possible...Even Aegon and his sisters had to change and adapt. "

"Why Snow? Young Arryn is _true born and_ much more easier to—"

"—Lord Arryn is a sickly child, poisoned by Littlefinger's influence. Jon Snow commands the loyalty of three Kingdoms." Tyrion let that hang for a moment, then asked, "Would you rather risk a rebellion, my Queen? Have the lords rally in Stark's name and turn him into a symbol ?"

Dany's eyes closed in resignation _. A queen belongs not to herself, but to the realm. Marriage or carnage, those are my choices. A wedding or a war_. "Tell me Lord Tyrion, what does my prospective husband think of this?

* * *

 _"What?"_ Jon felt a jolt of surprise and stared at his sister in disbelief. He was not at all sure how he felt about what he had just heard.

"I said, Queen Daenerys Targaryen is offering her full support, in exchange of a marriage alliance." Sansa sat composedly on a chair in her brother's quarters while she delivered the news. Beside her Ser Davos frowned, obviously concerned by the topic, while Tormund munched on an apple. Although the three were not _officially_ members of the King's Council, Jon valued their advice more than anything and relied on their judgement.

"She can't be serious!" Jon's gaze intensified and he looked over at Davos, as if the gray man could explain. "Sansa!" his eyes snapped back to her, "King Aerys Targaryen _burned_ our grandfather alive. He killed our uncle."

"That's all in the past, brother." Jon looked over his sister who spoke firmly, convincingly. _Who is this woman?_ Jon wondered. _Where is the girl who dreamed of love stories?_ Sometimes he didn't recognize her. "You're King now, " the redhead added, "and in these difficult times, I believe we would gain the most by allying your throne with the power and resources of Kings Landing. Daenerys Targaryen is the best match for you and for House Stark."

 _For me?!_ Jon glanced away, than sat up and crossed the room. He stopped by the hearth. _King in the North... and I'm not even free to settle the aspects of my own life._ He sighed bitterly, knowing that his duties were much higher than this. To give the living a standing chace against the White Walkers, he had to secure the Queen's support. Yet he couldn't do that, as long as Daenerys perceived him as a threat.

"Won't the Northern Houses be offended if I take a southern bride?" he pointed out.

"With all due respect, Sire," Davos took a respectful step forward, "the Northern Houses are suffering greatly from the deprivations of the war. Wagons of wheat and barley sent from the South will surely lessen the sting."

 _As will the protection of her army and dragons_. The admission brought a bitter twist to Jon's mouth. _Submit, and I promise you food and safety. Submit and live. Or don't; and die fighting the Others._ It wasn't really a choice. Absentmindedly, he watched the ever-changing dance of flames. That's what _she_ was. _Fire_. Beautiful to look at, but capable of burning everything to the ground.

"Enough for now." Jon's voice was tired, but firm. They had been up half the night making plans, discussing. "I'm gratefull for your advice, but we should all get some sleep. You'll have my decision in the morning." Davos left first, with a short nod, than Sansa followed, offering a reassuring smile. Only Tormund remained behind. He glared, standing at an arm's lenghth.

"Lighten up lad!" the wildling demanded. "There's worse fates than marrying a moonmaiden. Aye, she's a tad scrawny and has a foul temper, but I wouldn't mind her warming me bed. I would-"

"You'd best guard that tongue,Tormund," Jon cut in, "especially, when discussing about _her_ ". His tone was serious, but friendly, "Daenerys Targaryen is no moonmaid. She's a queen, and I won't have bad blood between her men and mine."

" _She's a queen,"_ Tormund mocked, while stepping out, "A spoiled little minx, that one! Harr! She wouldn't be able to hold a spear." The horn-blower broke into a hearty laughter then stopped, looking down the corridor. "The woman in your sister's service tho' - now that's a woman fit to be queen," the wildling declared, with a wicked glint in his eye.

* * *

In her chambers, Daenerys was still awake. She sat, quietly and pensive, as Missandei gently combed the tangles out of her hair. "Your Grace should sleep", the Naathi girl spoke in a small voice, "otherwise her beauty will be gone and the northern suitor might lose interest." Her hands sifted slowly through the queens silvery locks in a gentle, soothing motion.

"The northern suitor has no interest in _me_ ," Dany replied softly, "It's not my beauty he desires." A small laugh of disbelief escaped Missandei lips.

"No man could ever look on you, and not desire you, My Queen."

"Not him." Daenerys turned to face her loyal attendant. She met the girl's golden gaze. "Have you seen his eyes, my sweetling? They're so cold... They say the Starks have frozen hearts.""

"Rumors, most gracious one. This one thinks the northerner has kind eyes." The comb went down the silky locks with a regular movement. "Peope say he's brave, and just, and that he has a gentle heart too."

Dany remained silent. From the arched windows she saw that a full moon had risen. It made her remember the night of her first wedding, when Khal Drogo had claimed her maidenhead beneath the stranger stars. How frightened she had been! And how excited. Would it be the same with him? _No,_ she quickly dismissed the thought, _I am not the girl I was, and he is not my sun-and-stars._

* * *

Late into the night Sansa had finally drifted off to sleep. She felt herself slowly sliding into it's comfort when suddenly, a great clamor arose - voices followed by the splintering sound of furniture breaking, and solid thuds. Her blue eyes snapped open-wide and she sat up in the bed, letting out a short gasp. As her vision focused she looked around, trying to figure out what was happening. _Fierce grunts and shattering furniture. Muffled curses and loud kicks._

 _"You'll never mock me again, Ser!_ " The noise came from Brienne's room.

 _"I'm ain't mocking, woman! I'm tryin' ta marry ya!_ _Aaaaarrrrrgggggghhhhhh!"_

"Oh, no!" the young lady Stark cried as she fell back onto her pillows. "Not again!"

* * *

 **Thank you for reading this chapter. How was it? Let me know what you think.**  
 **XoXo**  
 **Roheline**


	4. Chapter 4 - A wedding takes place

**The biggest "thank you" goes to all of you, for your dedication and reviews, my dear readers.**  
 **I must clarify, after receiving a review and exchanging with some members, that Brienne is NOT being raped in the last chapter. The intruder was just Tormund, trying to be charming and steal her away like wildlings do :)**  
 **Also, thank you for being patient. I try to update this story as soon as I can, but family obligations, work, and sometimes the lack of inspiration take their toll.**  
 **This being said, enjoy the new chapter and don't forget to tell me what you think.**

 _ **Disclaimer: This story contains elements from the books & show. I own absolutely nothing, this is just for fun.**_

.ooo.

Daenerys Targaryen wed Jon Snow in a small ceremony, held according to northern traditions. There weren't many guests at the feast, Stark allies for the most part and the Queen's small retinue. Her new husband drank and ate but little. He listened whenever someone rose to make a toast and nodded a curt acknowledgment, but otherwise his face might have been made of stone. _He is not hard to look at_ , Dany told herself, _b_ _ut he's_ _too_ _stern and somber._ As her glance shifted away, his face turned, but it was a moment too late. Their eyes never met.

The feast went on into the night. The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with banners. Black and white - the Targaryen dragons and Stark direwolves. People were drifting in and out, standing in small groups to chat, or sitting on the benches ranged against the walls. Hour after hour, after hour. Only well past midnight did Daenerys decide to retire. She wanted it to be done although the end made her uneasy. For after the feast came the bedding. _I suppose it would be harder if I found him unattractive,_ she tried to encourage herself.

As soon as she entered her chambers, _their chambers,_ her handmaids began to ready their khaleesi for the night. Irri took her hair down, dipped an ivory comb in violet water, and worked out the tangles in long, languid strokes. Jhiqui rubbed scented oils into her skin, while Missandei brought her nightgown - a rather sheer, silky, whisper of a thing.

"Will you be needing anything else, Your Grace?" Dany shook her head, dismissing the question in silence. After the girls took their leave she simply sat on the feather bed, stiff in her silk finery, waiting. In the North, a man came to his bride and they had chosen to keep this custom. _The northerners would see it as the queen bowing to_ _their traditions,_ Tyrion had said, a sign of respect for her new husband. _Husband_. Khal Drogo had been her sun-and-stars, but she'd lost him so long ago. She'd almost forgot how it felt to love and be loved in return.

Daario had helped her remember. But although he whispered words of love when the two of them were as one, she knew it was the dragon queen he loved. Not her. _He won't be the last man to love you._ Was that so? Could she ever feel something again? Would she ever desire somehing else, other than the Iron Throne? A faint noise pulled her out of her musing, as the heavy door of the room swung open, then shut. _Jon._

He looked at her. For the first time since all the festivities began, Jon looked straight into the eyes of his bride. He'd stolen some glances during the feast, although as far as he knew, the queen never so much as looked at him. She'd sat silent through the feast, wrapped in her silks and black thoughts, speaking only when spoken to. _Arrogant_. Yet she truly was as beautiful as men said. The sort of beauty that bewitched a man in spite of himself. Small and delicate, with big purple eyes and sun-kissed skin. _Almost unworldly_.

She sat in desolate idleness, twining her fingers together and looking blankly towards him, but even in the dim light, Jon could see through all that. She was rigid, her shoulders tense, trying her best to feign indifference.

"You don't need to be afraid of me," he said as he came across the room, "I won't—"

"—I am not afraid," Dany cut in, passionless. Her eyes followed his movements. Instead of sitting beside her, the northerner went to the table near the window and filled two wine cups. " _More_ wine?" she mocked. Yet drinking herself into oblivion wasn't such a bad idea, so she took the cup he offered and swallowed once, twice, three times. It was very fine wine. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling the sweetness. _Very fine wine indeed,_ but she was in no mood to taste it.

"Are you tired?" The northerner spoke in a slow, drawn-out way, his voice deep and warm. "Shall I leave you to—?"

"—no." Dany opened her eyes and sat up, shaking her head. "No," she repeated, taking a deep breath. He smelled faintly of soap and wine, "There's no point in further delaying this," the woman added quietly and reached for the fastenings on his chest. _If it must be, it may as well be now,_ she thought, _when **I** choose_ it. "We both know our duty," she continued, and her fingers worked deftly, removing both jerkin and doublet, "It would be stupid to risk an annulment." The soft leather slid off his shoulders and fell onto the floor.

 _Duty..._ Jon's jaw clenched. It was so logical. So cold-blooded. And after what he'd shared with Ygritte — so wrong. _Such union should come out of love, not duty_. Ygritte... He felt as if he was betraying his Ygritte. Yet an old flame began to kindle as Daenerys' hands moved smoothly, from the curves of his shoulders to the slight concavities of his belly. Oblivious, her fingers feathered over his scars and that's when Jon gripped her wrists.

Glancing up Daenerys found him staring. He kept still, hands around her wrists, eyes moving from her hair, to her eyes, her mouth. There was hunger in those dark eyes, yes, but glazed with some sort of hardness that made her feel small. In this bedroom, without the entire court between then, he was a man, and she a girl. _No. Not a girl,_ she thought, _A_ _woman grown. A queen_ _!_ Hurt and confusion clashed in Dany's chest, yet it was anger the one to rise from the wreckage.

"No?" violet eyes flashed imperiously and small hands clenched, preparing to wrench free, "Who are you to refuse a quee—?"

There was no demand in the kiss that swallowed her words. Only a simmering anger. _Am I causing it,_ she wondered, _or is_ _it this whole situation?_ But than he kissed her again and she couldn't think any more. This kiss was longer. It lingered, tasted... and just when Dany's heartbeat began to quicken — it ended. She'd been a part of him—fleetingly—and now she was alone again. Somehow this tore at her heart, so she quickly stretched on her toes and caught his lips again.

Jon dreaded her obstinate determination, her insistencey, and above all he dreaded her vain, entitled manner. But the softness of her, the silky skin and warmth, the way the pulse beat at the base of her throat ... it all stirred the blood in him so hot, he felt afire. Breathless, she pulled away a few inches, stroking the back of his head, and their eyes locked, stunned and confused at the intensity of it all. And for the first time Jon glimpsed the woman behind the queen.

 _Breathtakingly, stunningly, beautiful._

He drew her to him, took her in his arms again and without warning he picked her up. The world spun, and the next thing Dany knew, was his face on top of her, and the sweet heaviness of his body.

* * *

Hours before dawn, Daenerys woke up shivering and rigid with terror. She'd dreamed of demons. Demons made of snow and ice and cold. They were all around her, reaching for her, blue and cold, whispering, pulling, touching her with their cold hands, twining their fingers through her hair. And she could not move. Even her heart had ceased to... had wanted to... wanted to... She could not recall the dream exactly, because the abrupt plunge into reality was equally disturbing.

Lost in the pleasures of newfound intimacy, it had been easy to forget her situation, but now she found herself sleeping next to a stranger with whom her life was inextricably linked. Still, stranger or not, she wanted to shake him, wake him, make him hold her, fuck her, help her forget the dreadful dream. But if she did, he would probably laugh.

"You're frozen," Jon's voice took her by surprise, for she hadn't realized he was awake. Slowly his warm hand ran down her arm and urged her gently under the pile of furs and into the warm space beside him. "Is it me?" he asked a moment later, his voice groggy with sleep, "Can you not bear me?"

 _Not bear him?_ Wordlessly, Dany burrowed closer, the warmth of his body seeping into her naked skin. Oh, how she lusted for this man! Just feeling his skin against hers made her weak with desire. It puzzled her, this queer, persistent wanting. He was nothing like Drogo or Daario. His brooding look, his sullen face ... _O_ _h, but his heat, his passion._ Deep within, she felt a new fire stirring, a new awareness emerging, and soon a sweet moan escaped her lips as she wrapped her legs around him again.


	5. Chapter 5 - An ill-omened night

**Hey there you guys!**  
 **I begin by honestly thanking you all, for your** _ **tremendous**_ **patience at awaiting this update. It took forever, I know, but the past month has been one of the busiest for me and I had little time and little energy to put this together. Nevertheless, here it is: a nice new chapter, slightly longer than my usual.**

 **As always, I'm sending my best wishes to all those who have stayed faithful to this story:** **xan-merrick, SwaggyStiles, Kcrane, Theeyeofanger, heros bane, Vivss \- I'm sure you're gonna love this chapter ;))  
** **If I forgot someone, it wasn't intentional and I** **apologize**.  
 **This being said...enjoy!  
**

 ** _Disclaimer: This story contains elements from the books & show. I own absolutely nothing, this is just for fun._**

 ** _.ooo._**

* * *

Outside the world was black. Ghost padded silently beside his master then raced ahead disappearing between the trees. Snow swirled through the castle yard, stirred by the cold winds of winter. _Cold, but not dangerously cold,_ Jon thought, _not yet._ Around him there was a terrific stir, with comings and goings, and thorough preparations. The Night's Watch needed more— more men, more weapons, more food.

While its magnificent height was a strength, the length of the Wall was its weakness. Jon remembered something his father had said once. _A wall is only as strong as the men who stand behind it._ The Night's Watch was brave enough, but the sworn brothers were far too few for the task that confronted them. So Jon had set his mind to help them.

He'd begun by granting each House, one of the unoccupied castles along the Wall. They were expected to man them with at least a fifth of their strength and prepare the abandoned strongholds for an upcoming assault. It wasn't much, but it was still an improvement.

After, he ordered a ride to ensure more supplies. Although the years of war had left the North low on food, the Vale of Arryn was famously fertile and had gone untouched during the fighting. So, until the southern supplies promised by Daenerys were to arrive by ships, Lord Royce had offered support, despite Petyr Baelish' subtle objections. Remembering, Jon tightened his sword hand.

That man was a thorn in his side. Behind the smiles and forced mild manners, Littlefinger was shrewd and calculating, cynically controlling those around him. Jon wanted him _gone_ and as far away as possible from Sansa, since it was obvious that Baelish brought out the worst in his younger sister. And Sansa had already been through too much.

She would smile, every day, proudly wearing her Stark colors, each strand of hair brushed back in its place. A perfect image. But inside she still hadn't healed. She was broken up, hiding her scars, her pain, _her rage._ Cursing his powerlessness, Jon inhaled sharply and looked away.

The wagons were forming up beneath Ser Davos' watchful eye while Tormund Giantsbane trotted down the column, pointing and fussing, his cheeks red from the cold. Armed soldiers were gathered outside the stables too, readying their horses, talking and jesting. Everything went according to plan when suddenly, the talk died and eyebrows rose all around the yard.

Flanked by her queensguard, Daenerys Targaryen was approaching, all clad in white. White woolen breeches tucked into boots of bleached leather. A white fur cloak, pinned at the shoulder with a three headed silver dragon and under it, a white tunic fastened with rubies. Jon noticed his queen had chosen to wear her long silvery hair braided in what he assumed was Dothraki fashion.

"My Lady," he greeted, "Won't you reconsider? The risk—"

"—is my own." Violet eyes met him leaving no room for argument. Then, gently, she reached out for her horse and stroked its neck, "I was half a girl and half alone when I crossed the Red Waste," Daenerys confessed, running her fingers through the animal's mane, "We had no food and little water... many of us died." _A trail of corpses,_ _left behind her._

Although her voice didn't waver, Jon saw the sadness that clouded those violet eyes. She stared, fixing nothing in particular. _It isn't easy for her to open up,_ he realized and wondered what other hardships had shaped this dragon queen.

"How old were you?" There was a genuine concern in Jon's question, the honest curiosity of someone wanting to know more.

"Fourteen—" as she answered Daenerys met his gaze again, "—but I survived, my Lord. So you see, there's no need to worry." Gripping the saddle horn, Dany stepped into the stirrup with the confidence of a skilled rider, willed her body upward and flung the other leg over the horse. "Nevertheless," she continued, arching an eyebrow "if my Lord husband and his men fail to protect me—" a faint smile brushed her lips before finishing, "—my children won't."

Jon glanced up at the sky. There was no sign of Drogon, nor Rhaegal, but he could still hear them roar in the distance. The third dragon, Viserion, had chosen to remain in the depths of Winterfell's crypts, where hot springs streamed. _"He's as lazy as I am,"_ Tyrion Lannister had said, obviously fond of the milky-golden beast. The Imp had an ardent fascination with dragons: he sought to be around them, observe them, and conscientiously read everything on the subject.

Oddly enough, the winged demons seemed to be taking a liking to him too, Tyrion being the only other person, apart from Daenerys, allowed to touch them. Jon envied him, for these were impressive, intelligent creatures. _Fire made flesh,_ Jon thought, _just like their mother._ A hot tremor traveled in his veins, remembering the feel of her. _Their passion._

He watched her wheel the horse about, small body settled neatly in the saddle, and for the first time since arriving at Winterfell, she looked completely at ease, very much at home on horseback. Soon her steed broke into a gallop, and the crowd parted, every eye upon her. She rode out onto the plain, fearlessly, smiling, and as she turned to ride back, a fire pit loomed directly in her path. Without a hint of hesitation Daenerys kicked her heels into the side of the mount and raced, faster and faster, until the horse leapt over the flames.

When she pulled up next to Jon, who had mounted too, a mischievous glimmer flickered in her eyes. "Race you to the bridge, my Lord?" her entire stance screamed _"I dare you!"_ and Jon lowered his head to hide the twitch at the corners of his mouth, "Done," he said intently, kicking his horse forward. Dany followed closely and they galloped off down the trail, the hooves of their steeds kicking up showers of snow as they went.

 **.ooo.**

* * *

As the column made its way north, snow fell heavier and heavier. The long line of wagons wend past farmlands and flint hills, with spearmen and archers riding escort. Three days ride from Winterfell however, the farmland gave way to dense wood, and the flint hills rose higher and wilder with each passing mile, until by the fifth day they turned into mountains.

They'd left in high spirits, but as the road veered through the wood, a forest of oak and evergreen older and darker than any Dany had ever seen, the jests grew fewer and tempers shorter. The wolfswood _,_ as Jon called it, seemed haunted. The horses stepped carefully over the frozen ground, the noise of their hooves muffled in a thick fog.

Voices carried strangely through the damp air. It was like riding through a vapor peopled by ghosts. Calls from one end of the long string were sometimes heard easily at the other, while the sounds of nearby conversations were lost in broken murmurs. Disembodied voices floated in the air, speaking far away, then remarkably near at hand. No one would admit to being afraid —they were soldiers, after all— but Jon could feel the unease. A brooding silence had sobered them all in the waning afternoon light.

"Tormund," he shouted, "We'll camp here tonight! Ride back along the column and spread the word," he instructed, "Tell the men I want spears ready at all times."

Shortly after, tents sprouted like mushrooms after a rain and blankets covered the bare ground before the starting fires. It had been a long day's travel, with only a hasty meal eaten in the saddle, and everyone was pleased to stop for a cooked dinner. Stewards tethered the horses in long lines, and saw them fed and watered. Foresters took their axes to the trees in the dying daylight, to harvest enough wood to see them through the night.

Daenerys unmounted and wrapped the cloak tighter around herself. As she looked around, her breath misted in the cold air. Several men were hacking bare branches from the trunk of a large dead tree. _It will be good to feel warm again,_ she thought, then looked up to see the moon. It was rising, pale and eerie. Some time after, Jon struck sparks from flint and dagger. He never shied away from such tasks, unlike a noble would have, and Daenerys liked that about him.

When the blaze was all acrackle, her husband peeled off his gloves and gave a long sigh, feeling the heat of the flames on his skin. The sound filled Dany with warmth and spread through her frozen limbs like melting butter. _Would he think me wanton if I kissed him?_ He made her want to kiss him, pull him into her bed and—

"Your hand," she said flustered, pushing the thought away, "How did you burn it?"

Jon hesitated before meeting her eyes. "It happened at Castle Black," he began, glancing back at the flames. "The Lord Commander decided to bring in two dead bodies, for further examination and burial —rangers who went missing many months before." His hand flexed, opening and closing the fingers. "But that very night, the dead rose and attacked us..." Jon snapped a dry stick and tossed it into the fire, where it flamed. "Steel wouldn't help, so I set a drape on fire and used my hand to fling it onto one of the wights."

Dany listened, spellbound, watching the light flicker on his face. "The fire caught in the dead man's clothing and consumed him, as if his flesh were candle wax and his bones dry wood." Jon had only to close his eyes to see that _thing_ staggering, its face surrounded by a nimbus of fire, dead flesh melting away and sloughing off its skull.

"It still gives you nightmares," Dany pointed out, her voice a mere whisper. The cloak loosened and fell of her shoulder. Their eyes met. "It's the look you just had," she explained, "I recognize it. I had ... I _have_ ," she corrected seeing Viserys' dying face flash in her mind, "I have nightmares too."

For a moment it seemed she was going to tell him something, confide in him. But then she broke the gaze and looked away. Whatever went on in her head, he had no say in it. He couldn't force it out. _He wouldn't._ "Tomorrow we'll ride at dawn" Jon informed, changing the subject, "You should get some rest."

Dany looked back to him and smiled, "Yes I should," she answered feeling an odd sensation of longing. They were merely allies, not man and wife, having slept separately ever since after their wedding night. In many ways it was an ideal match, yet she found herself wanting more. More than she _knew_ was smart.

 _I am still at war,_ Dany told herself, _and he is still a stranger._ But trusting Jon was, to put it simply, a most natural thing to do. He confused her with his kindness, his gentleness. Pondering, Daenerys returned to her tent without speaking.

 **.ooo.**

* * *

 ** _Hours before dawn..._**

In her sleep, Dany heard the clamor. Her legs were still wrapped in the fur-coverings as she opened her eyes. Shocked, she shoved them away and stalked to the tent's entrance. Her sentry, a young Unsullied, stood guard.

"Please stay in the tent, Your Majesty," he said firmly, assuming a defensive position.

Soldiers with bare blades crossed in front of her tent at a run. Dany stepped out and let the flap fall behind her. The wind had stopped. It was cold. _Dreadfully cold._ A thicker mist had fallen, making it difficult to be sure of what was happening. As her eyes adjusted, Dany could see men fighting across a ragged blanket of white.

"What's happening?" she asked, her heart in her throat.

"Your Majesty, _please,_ go inside," the sentry said again. The camp was in chaos as soldiers rolled out of their sleeping blankets, dragging their swords from their sheaths and snatching up their shields before running toward the fight. Then, she saw it - a shadow, emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood tall and hard as stone, with flesh pale as milk. In moments others appeared, twins to the first. Three of them… four… five…six…

Their armor seemed to change color as they moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, the patterns running like moonlight on water with every step they took. Their longswords were like nothing Daenerys had ever seen, alive with moonlight, translucent, shards of crystal, thin and sharp.

By the painful light of the burning fires, Dany recognized Jon. He fought one of the shadows bravely, lifting his sword high over his head, defiant. Again and again their swords met, until Dany wanted to cover her ears against the strange anguished keening of the clash. Yet she didn't. _She couldn't.  
Drogon... _She needed her dragon.

 _"_ Drogon _,_ " she screamed, and kept shouting until her voice was hoarse and above the beating of her heart, she could hear the sound of wings...

Ever the largest of her three, Drogon had grown larger still, his wings stretching twenty feet from tip to tip. The beast twisted violently in the air, wings beating once, twice … then he landed with a powerful _hiss._ Before her guard could react, Daenerys Targaryen vaulted onto the dragon's back. Small, white hands clutched at his scales, fingers scrabbling for purchase. Her heart felt as if it were about to burst. _Yes_ , she thought, _Yes, my child. Do it, do it now!_

"DRACARYS!"

 **.ooo.**

* * *

The pale sword came shimmering through the air. Jon met it with Valyrian steel, but when the blades met, there was no ring of metal - only a high sound, at the edge of hearing. Jon stroke a second blow, and a third, then fell back a step. Another flurry of blows, and he fell back again, panting from the effort now.

His blade was white with frost, the Other's danced with pale blue light. Boldly, the White Walker said something in a language that Jon did not know. The voice was like the cracking of ice on a winter lake, the tone mocking. It made Jon find his fury.

He shouted and lashed out, lifting the frost-covered longsword with both hands, putting all his weight behind it. This time, the Other's parry was too slow and he shattered into a hundred brittle pieces of ice, when the Valyrian blade touched him. That was when the roars boomed.

Jon turned to see the dragons bathe the enemy's forces in flames. Drogon attacked from the air, roaring, snorting plumes of fire and smoke with Daenerys clinging onto his back. But the smaller one, Rhaegal descended among the wights, his strong jaws snapping the rotted bodies to pieces.

 _No,_ Jon thought, seeing the wights charge towards the green beast. _Rise up! They'll catch you._ But it was too late. The iced-monsters were throwing heavy chains to bind him. "Up!" Jon shouted, "Get up!" He darted forward, sword in his hands. Snow kicked up beneath his heels, and roars rang in his ears. Rhaegal raised his head to spit fire, but one White Walker managed to leap onto his back. Swiftly, he drove a crystal spear into the dragon's long scaled neck.

Dany, Jon and Rhegal screamed as one.

The green beast arched upward with a hiss of pain and Daenerys watched in terror. His tail lashed sideways, crushing at least a dozen wights. She watched his head crane around at the end of that long serpentine neck, saw his green wings unfold to throw the White Walker backwards into the snow. He was struggling to his feet when Jon's blade reached him, turning his body into a million icy shards.

Crazed, Rhaegal madly beat his wings, the crystal spear wobbling in his back. Smoke rose from the wound and, as the Others closed in, Jon knew what he had to do. The world seemed to slow as Daenerys registered what was happening.

 _"Jon, no!"_ she shouted with all the strength she could muster, " _He'll burn you alive! Stop!"_

But Jon couldn't hear her. He approached the roaring dragon decidedly. A furnace wind engulfed him, yet he didn't stop. Rhaegal's scaled neck stretched, black teeth snapping closed inches away from his face. _"No!"_ he ordered, standing his ground, staring into the molten bronze eyes, brighter than polished shields "Easy, now, easy... Calm down!" The answering roar was full of fear and fury, full of pain, yet the dragon folded it's wings...

The air was thick with heat. Jon seized the crystal spear, ripped it out and flung it aside. He could not see, nor breathe, nor think. Gathering his strength he leapt onto the dragon's back and the green wings cracked like thunder.

Suddenly the white covered ground was falling away beneath him.


	6. Chapter 6 - An unforeseen connection

**Hello all! I know it's been a _[long]_ while since I updated, I know, I know. **  
**But this story takes so much focus to write and life got in the way, then my muse didn't cooperate, so I decided it would be better to stay away awhile, not wanting to ruin it.**  
 **Anyway, this pick up right where the last chapter ended - with Jon and Rhaegal because their connection needed just a little more explaining :) Just a little bit. So the first part of this chapter deals with that, while the following focuses on Jon and Dany. Now, I really want to know what you guys think about their interaction so, as usual, some feedback would be amazing. This being said... Enjoy!**

* * *

 _"Jon, stop!" Dany shouted with all the strength she could muster. The blood froze in her veins - he was going to get himself killed! "Stop!" she screamed again, over the raising wind, over her thundering heart. But Jon couldn't hear her._

* * *

He could not see, nor breathe, nor think. Acting on pure instinct, the man leapt onto the dragon's back, seized the crystal spear and ripped it out. The damned thing was glowed brightly, smeared with fuming black blood. _As fierce as they are, e_ _ven dragons can be killed_ , Jon realized and flung the spear aside violently. Beneath him Rhaegal roared, snapping his massive jaws in protest, but made no attempt to throw him off. Muscles rippled under the scaly skin, twitching and gathering their strength, then suddenly, with a cracking sound, large wings flung open, sending them soaring from the ground.

Jon held on tighter, lifting and falling with the beast, feeling his heart about to burst. The trees below lost shape, faster and faster, until it all dissolved into a blur of gray and white. _Would my body shatter if I fell now?_ he wondered, _Would there be time to register what part of me broke first?_ Jon's head began to spin and he closed his eyes against the onslaught of wind-driven ice-crystals. The dragonlords of old Valyria used binding spells and sorcerous horns to control their mounts - he had to make do with hands and feet.

Not wanting to further contemplate an oncoming death, Jon tightened his grip and kicked the dragon, trying to turn the beast. "Go back," he commanded, tugging the scales. This might cost him his life, he knew it, but there was no other way. "Back!" the man shouted again, yanking as hard as he could, "Go back!" But it was pointless - Rhaegal had a will of his own.

 _Yet my will is stronger_. The realization forced a shift in Jon, every fiber of his body accepting the fact that something profound was happening. Like an abrupt revelation —the curtains whipped away— he knew what needed to be done. There was no time to _tame_ the beast, or think of consequences. There was only time to assert _his will_. So focusing his entire being, Jon leaped out of his skin.

 _Turn. Back. ..._ _They need us..._

Rhaegal shrieked at once, twisting abruptly in the air, then plunged back through the night, on wings as green as jade. When the camp reappeared beneath them, the dragon roared his fury and bathed it in fire. Hot swirls of yellow, orange and green, merged with Drogon's black ones. Shrouded in flames, wights ran and tumbled to the ground, twisting and melting like candles. _Fire._ Fire was everywhere, it's hungry crackle raising above the screams. Jon could no longer feel his wounds, nor the ache in his muscles. They were winning. The Others were falling back, retreating into the woods.

 _They were winning._

* * *

 **.oOo.**

Later, when the flames died down and the embers cooled enough, Jon wandered through the predawn light, gazing across the camp's remains. Even now, hours later, a fine rain of dust and cinders kept falling from above, ashes drifting around like white moths and fireflies. A terrible sense of sadness crept through him in the realization of what victory had cost. Dragon-fire was a brutal weapon. It made no distinction between friend or foe, between human or wight. It could not be controlled.

Part of his men, unable to avoid the flames, had been caught in the crossfires. Those still alive were now crawling upon the ground, burned and bleeding, crying for their mothers. At least a third of the wagons had been consumed by the fire too. Jon took a few more steps, his face set in grim determination. Loneliness, deeper than ever, sagged his shoulders. It felt like he was no different from those ice monsters - a bringer of death. Dragging his feet through the mud and snow, he took a few more steps, then halted almost unable to believe his eyes.

 _She_ stood just a few feet ahead. _Daenerys the fierce. Daenerys the ruthless. The butcher Queen of Dothraki hoards_... Kneeling beside a fallen soldier — a boy, really — soothing back his dirty hair. Jon walked numbly toward them.

"It's alright," he could hear her say, in a steady voice. "It will be better soon; the pain will be over soon."

"Aye," the boy wailed, "I canna' ... I canna' feel my legs anymore…nor my hands… Are ye'... are ye' there?" Numb hands flailed blindly ahead, "Are ye there?" Dany grasped them firmly between her own. "I'm here," she whispered, "You're not alone." Suddenly, the boy's back arched off the muddy snow, his wounded body in violent protest at what his mind had already begun to accept. He gasped deeply from time to time, hungry for the air his lungs refused to breathe in.

A tear rolled down Dany's cheek. She could not save him, couldn't ease his pain. _People are always dying around you... What kind of queen can't protect her own?_ Embittered, she leaned closer over the struggling body, murmuring words of comfort, taking on the heartrending task of helping a man to die. When it was finally over, she gently pushed his eyelids closed and stood up, wiping away her tears. Her gaze drifted around the campsite, lost and saddened, until it met Jon's across a small distance. As recognition slowly settled in, something passed between them - unspoken and intense.

"Jon!" she cried out in relief, her hands reaching out as he approached. Before he had a chance to, Dany threw her arms around his neck, embracing him tighter than he'd ever thought her capable of. He could feel her heart against his ribs. He could feel it as clearly as if it was his own - strong, defying death with each beating. Basking in the nearness Jon drew her closer, wanting nothing more than to stay there forever, not moving, just feeling that resilient heart.

"Why?"—she finally asked, her voice muffled against his chest, "Why were you so reckless? Rhaegal could have... He could have—"

Dany's voice wavered and Jon kissed the crown of her head, nestling it to his chest. Remembering, it seemed almost surreal; some sort of instinct kicking in, something he couldn't explain or understand.

"I had to," he confessed, stroking her hair gently, reveling in its softness. "They would've killed him. I— I just had to."

Pulling back a little, Daenerys gently disentangled herself from the embrace and looked up. Her brow was wrinkled and tears streaked the ash on her face. Was she ... was she _crying_ for him?! No one had ever cried for him. His mother had been dead, and the rest of the world shed no tears for bastards. Hesitantly, he cupped her face and ran his thumbs down her cheeks. The tenderness made Dany's stomach clench.

"What's wrong?" he asked, searching her eyes, keeping his hands on either sides of her face, "Why are you crying?" He gazed down with such undisguised concern, such compassion, that it tugged at her heart. How was she supposed to react to this? With desires of the flesh she could deal with, but this... _this_ was disarming.

An awkward silence fell. She couldn't stop thinking of all the times people have told her how brave he was, how good a person, how kind. The young bastard who rose up the ranks in the Night's Watch, and then became King. A man with no claim or title, who bravely defied all odds. _Exaggerations_ , she'd call them, _embellishments of the truth._ Now, she knew better.

"I..." her voice faltered, unsure. "When those monster closed in on Rhaegal ... I thought I was about to lose him ... and you. Both of you." The mere though, sent an icy draft through her heart and she gave a shiver.

"It's alright," Jon whispered, pulling her back against him, "It's over."

Dany's arms went around him and she moved a little, burrowing closer. Their bodies molded to each other. _A perfect fit,_ she thought, as if they had been joined at some point in time, then split asunder, only to find themselves perfectly aligned once more. She closed her eyes and allowed herself this moment of peace. When she opened them again and gazed over his shoulder, she saw the sky lighting up in hues of gold, and orange and red.

She saw it catching fire.

* * *

 **.oOo.**

The rest of the journey passed uneventfully, although the road turned rough, then rougher. Survivors rode in silence, brooding, glancing at every shadow with unease, until their destination finally loomed ahead.

The sight of it gave Dany shivers. You could see it from miles off, a pale blue line across the northern horizon, stretching away to the east and west and vanishing in the far distance, immense and unbroken. _This is the end of the world,_ it seemed to say. Castle Black, with its timbered keeps and stone towers, looked like nothing more than a handful of toy blocks scattered on the snow, beneath the vast wall of ice.

The ancient stronghold of the black brothers was no true castle, yet Dany could not be more grateful for the safety it provided. The North was cold and harsh, and no place to be out in the open. Thus, after walking through the cold narrow corridors dimly lit by slitted windows, she almost sighed when she came to her chambers in the King's Tower. Although sparsely furnished, they had wall hangings and tapestries to absorb most of the damp and the drought. Furthermore, the bed had soft fresh linens, and, most importantly, a healthy fire burned in the hearth.

It's flames whirled and writhed , spinning their crimson veils, crackling from time to time. Soothed by the sound, Dany stripped off her traveling clothes and donned a loose nightgown. Tired as she was, she knew sleep wouldn't come easy, so she settled by the fire, thawing her frozen limbs. She stood there silent, thinking, trying to figure out what had happened with Rhaegal.

Why had he reacted like that to Jon? Viserion was lazy and curious, indulging in the attention he received. But Rhaegal! Her green was dangerous. Impulsive. Like Drogon, he didn't allow anyone near - not even Irri and Jhiqui, who've been with him since hatching. So why accept a stranger born in the North?

 _Oh! But he wasn't born in the North, was he?_ an inner voice whispered, _He was raised there, yes, but he was born in the South._ She knew it, from Tyrion. After fighting the Usurper's rebellion, Eddard Stark had returned to Winterfell with an infant son, and refused to say who his mother was. __Maybe his_ mother... Yes..._ the voice urged on. _In the South, where Targaryens and Velaryons ruled for centuries, dragonseeds remain plentiful. If the woman who made Lord Eddard forget his duty was a seed ... If she had some Valyrian blood in her veins, then he... he..._

Could it it be?! As crazy as it sounded, part of her wanted to believe it. Somehow it made her feel less lonely, even if just a little. Her thoughts churned like leaves in the wind when Jon knocked on the door. Stepping in, the northerner scanned the place with his assessing glance. He'd been busy, discussing the ambush they've suffered with his former black brothers, but before retiring he wanted to make sure the Queen had everything she needed.

"Your Grace," he greeted guardedly. She was sitting at the fireside in her nightgown, a heavy robe thrown over her shoulders and hair brushed loose, looking more beautiful than any woman he'd ever seen. "The Night's Watch has done its best to receive you. I hope you find your chambers satisfactory," he added politely.

"Yes," Daenerys replied looking straight into his eyes, "I do." There was a formality between them again, a distance they'd managed to bridge, out in the wild. Surely they could do it again. Somehow, she felt it was utterly important that they did. "Thank you," she continued and there was a world of meaning in her own eyes as she spoke, " For everything."

After the attack, Jon had doubled her guard and made sure she was protected, and fed, and warm. It had been the closest thing to feeling safe, given their situation."Will you sit with me awhile?" she invited and Jon looked at her for a long moment with those cold grey eyes of his. He hesitated, taken by surprise, then smiled his half-smile, softening a little. "As you wish," he agreed and settled into the other chair facing the fire. They remained silent, looking at the logs that were burning down to red embers.

"Why did you leave your home for this?" Dany asked softly, glancing at him.

When he didn't answer right away she knew his mind was working, pondering. He was such a calculating man, this northerner. And yet, beneath the reserved exterior she knew there was warmth. She'd seen it - in the way he treated his men. His sister. _Her._

"Winterfell was never _'home'_ to me," he finally confessed, earning a rather surprised look from Daenerys. "I loved that place as a boy, and I love it still, but it was never home. Not the way you'd want a home to be." He leaned forward in his chair and stared down at his fists, which he held clasped. "It was my father's home, where I was _allowed_ to live. Later, it would become Robb's home where I'd be allowed to live." His expression turned thoughtful, tinged by a bit of remorse. "No matter how close I got, I was always on the outside looking in."

Dany's eyes moved in little flicks as she studied different places on his face, "But why a black cloak?" she asked again, "Why a wall of ice when there's an entire world out there — Dorne, Pentos. Volantis!"

An expression of vulnerability washed over his face. He looked down for a second, then back at her, and it became obvious that confiding wasn't something he'd had much practice in. "Dorne was never an option and neither were the Free cities," he begun to explain, "You see, despite my bastard birth, or perhaps _because_ of it, I craved to prove myself, to make my way into this world. I wanted to be seen as the honorable, as the kind of man my father was, not just _'Ned Stark's bastard'_." He paused and broke the gaze with a glance to the ground. "In the Night's Watch, even a bastard can rise and earn glory."

Danys' heart went out to him. She could almost see him — a young boy, a bastard, longing for something he might never have.

"I never had a home either," she found herself confessing as she pulled a loose thread from her sleeve. "Viserys and I ... we were always on the run. Braavos, Myr, Pentos... One city after another, never settling down." Slowly, she wound the thread around her finger, "Had I not been blood of the dragon, maybe I could have found comfort with the Dothraki. But with Viserys gone, I was the last of my line. I was—" she looked on the verge of adding something more, but then shook her head and threw the thread into the flames.

"It must have been hard," Jon almost whispered, "losing your only brother." When she turned to him, her expression made him regret his words. This was prying into things that were none of his business. But the words were out there, and he could not take them back.

"Viserys taught me who I was," Daenerys' voice trailed off, eyes drifting to the flames. "He told me of our heritage and did his best to care for me, but..." a shadow passed over her face, "Our circumstances made him miserable. He went from being a prince to being a beggar, and it broke him. He grew angry. Violent." Even though her head was turned, Jon could see her eyes close for a moment. "He often took that anger out on me," she added and the edge of her voice spoke volumes.

Jon felt his chest tighten, horrified by the picture that leapt into his head. _Her own brother._ To be mistreated by the one person who was supposed to protect her. _"_ I'm sorry," was the only thing he could say, "I'm sorry it happened to you."

Her violet eyes came to his, "It doesn't matter," she tried to shrug it off, "I don't know why I even brough—"

"Daenerys" he cut her off in a gentle voice, "I know there are things you do not wish to tell me. Perhaps things you cannot tell me." Somewhat tentatively, Jon shifted in his chair to fully face her. "Confiding isn't easy for me either." Their eyes bore into each others and at such close range, she could see the shifting hues in his gaze. "I'll never insist on knowing things that are your own concern," he continued seriously, "I'll never ask for something you cannot give me. But what I would ask of you— when you do tell me something, let it be the truth. We have nothing between us —save honesty. Let there be room for secrets, but not for lies. Do you agree?"

She didn't answer, she couldn't, but when he reached out, she put her hand in his without a second thought. Their fingers tangled, their hands joined, and in that moment Dany knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she could trust this man completely.

"You have my honesty, Jon. And my trust." She smiled and the smile made him wish that she was plainer. It made him want so much more —not only trust and honesty. _I want her,_ he realized. _I want her to come to me willingly, to bring me her joys and her sorrows and her lust._ At once, guilt washed over him as if he were taking advantage, so he stood up reluctantly and made for the door.

"Goodnight, my lady. I'll see you in the morn."


	7. Chapter 7 - A Nightmare and A Dream

**A big, big, hug goes to all of you, for your dedication and reviews, dearest of readers!  
I know the updates are slow and I thank you for your patience. Now, fair warning, this chapter contains some material of the citrus variety :)  
As ****Arrowman best said it in a review,** **it was "time for some more bedding".  
This being said, I have decided to change the overall rating of the story to M [and I'm currently keeping my fingers crossed and hoping I don't lose** **any of you because of this.]  
PS: At the end you also get the explanation for the White Walkers crossing the Wall. **

_**Disclaimer: This story contains elements from the books & show. I own absolutely nothing, this is just for fun.**_

* * *

The dragons flew fast and swift, both Dany and Jon scanning the earth as they cruised over what used to be a village. Most humans had fled, seeking refuge across the Wall, but a few vestiges of their old life remained - houses of unmortared stone, empty sheepsheads, wells.

Jon crouched on his mount, tightening his grip as the dragon took him higher, up the face of a neighboring mountain. Stony peaks rose to meet them, lonely and monstrous under the blue sky, but Rhaegal bypassed them, banking hard against the wind. As they cleared the highest peak, in joy or rage or for the hell of it, the dragon gripped clawfuls of snow and set them scattering behind like a trail of glittering stars.

It was a strange sort of thrill, to ride like this, with the wind pressing against him like a lover. After days of flying, Jon couldn't get enough of it, even though he spent twice as much time in the air than Daenerys. It was simply astonishing! Were it their wish, they could annihilate entire armies just by themselves. Just by commanding their dragons. _Was this how the conquerors felt, hundreds of years ago?_ he briefly wondered, but then his mount hit the open sky and all rational thought left him.

There was nothing around them but clouds. Clouds as massive as the mountains far below, castles and temples of white and purple and blue. _Clouds seen from above._ Jon felt his heart swell with emotion. On Rhaegal's back he felt whole. Up in the sky the woes of this world could not touch him. Overwhelmed by the excitement, he gave a shout and Dany turned to watch him.

There was such an untamed joy in him! A happiness she knew and understood as well. It made her smile in response. _We are the last dragon-riders,_ she realized bitersweetly. _We are the last, but we are not alone. We have each other._

By the time they turned back, the smoke of countless forges was rising in the air. A first shipment of obsidian had arrived from Dragonstone and weapons were being made, weapons edged with dragonglass, able to fight off wights and Walkers. Rhaegal descended amidst the sound of pounding hammers and crackling flames, snarling at the nearest group of onlookers. Drogon followed a moment later.

Jon dismounted. Slung across his back in a black leather shoulder sheath was Longclaw, the hand-and-a-half Valyrian blade. _It makes him look m_ _ore_ _warrior than king,_ Dany thought as she watched him come around to help her down. She didn't need the help, but the feel of his hands on her was something she enjoyed. Careful, but not too gentle, his thumbs pressing over her ribs while he looked into her eyes. She liked his eyes too - deep and dark and warm.

Sometimes, as guarded as he was, those eyes gave him away. Sometimes she'd catch a glimpse of yearning, of some sort of hunger that set her body tingling. _Yet his hands never linger; they never stray._ He kept his distance, even when his manner was most kind. It made her wonder if there was another woman he loved and took to his bed. Was he gentle with her too? Was he tender? Or unrestrained in the heat of passion? A sharp pang cut through Dany's heart and she peeled off her gloves rather nervously, as they strode together into the blacksmith's.

Around them, the men hammered and heaved, and shoveled and honed. The blacksmith was already awaiting their visit. On a table before the massively muscled man, lay an array of blades, glossy from polishing. Jon paused before the spread, picked up a sword, and weighed it in his hands.

"Lighter," he said to the blacksmith, who watched him with keen blue eyes. Another sword followed, then a dagger, Jon weighing them as well. "Our men are bearing enough weight with the armor," the king pointed out. "We need lighter weapons."

The blacksmith's eyes narrowed slightly and he picked up the sword Jon had set down. He weighed it too and cocked his head, studying it. "I could shave off some weight from the hilt," his rough voice cut through the hammers. "It won't take long," he added walking back into the maze of fire and molten ore.

The strike and clang of metal on metal was the only sound as Dany picked up one of the daggers herself. Jon eyed her curiosely, then set down his blade. Slowly, he moved around the table and positioned himself behind her. "You must hold it like this," he whispered, closing his hand over hers, folding her fingers more tightly around the hilt. "And move your weight to your front foot. Now, here," he added, turning her around and pressing the dagger's point just under his breastbone, "Here is where you strike." His face was set, determined. "Up and in, as hard as you can." Their eyes locked. "It'll go straight into the heart."

Dany went very still and her eyes dropped on their joined hands. Her mouth was dry. She could feel the pressure of his fingers and the rough scrape of his glove. They were spreading a fever inside. Gods, how she wanted him to touch her - with his hands and his mouth, like he'd done during their wedding night. And she wanted to touch him too. She wanted to taunt him and tease him and drive him mad with desire, until he ached for her. Suddenly, her eyes went back to his. _What would he think of this?_ _Him, a northerner raised at Winterfell ... Somber and stern and honorable._

Jon tensed with awareness the moment she looked up again. She was gazing at him, steadily, her eyes bright and wide. It was as if she enjoyed it. As if she found him handsome or interesting, or maybe even both. Slowly, her soft scent wafted through the air, and he had to fight the sudden urge to inhale. She always smelled good. Sweet and warm, even in the dead of winter. Unconsciously his body leaned towards her. She stood so close now, lips slightly parted for air... Beckoning. He could almost, almost—

 _"They should be lighter now."_ The blacksmith's voice rang out suddenly, and both king and queen nearly jumped away from each other. The bulky man stood with a set of blades in his powerful arms, frowning awkwardly at the scene.

"Beg pardon, your Graces," he mumbled, "Should I retur—"

"No." Jon and Dany answered at once. The crease in the blacksmith's brow grew deeper, his gaze shifting between the two.

"Let's see the blades," said Jon, trying to clear the tension in the air.

* * *

 ** _Winterfell_**

A cold wind rustled over the land and up the fortress' stone walls. Sansa Stark stood high on the ramparts, gripping the frozen stone of the parapet with thin, long fingers. Each day she would come up and stand for hours, looking out over the open fields, awaiting, straight and still just like a marble statue.

 _She's grown cold like marble too,_ Tyrion thought as he watched. The years of cruelty and abuse had left their mark. You could see it in her aloofness, in the inner stillness she possessed. Wounded so many times, her young heart had hardened with scar tissue. It was why Tyrion felt a sort of shame in realizing that suffering had also given a greater luster to her beauty. It had deepened her, sharpened her somehow. Sansa was like a cold, clear-cut diamond.

"My lord." She greeted without turning around. "Are you going to say something, or just stand there, looking at me?"

Shaking his head and moving forward, Tyrion replied, "I received words from the Wall. Their Highnesses are extending their stay." He stopped near the parapet too and continued in a lighter tone. "Were it not for the circumstances and setting, it could be a honeymoon." As he finished the sentence, a crooked grin began to spread on his face. Sansa turned and smiled mildly, acknowledging the insinuation. "It is my hope too, that they grow fond each other."

"Oh, I'm sure they will." Tyrion's grin got wider, "Unlike what some would claim, I think they the King and Queen complement each other rather nicely. They both have high moral standards," he explained, "but while she is overemotional and prone to rash judgements, he expresses little emotion, but plans very well, very logically."

"Yes," Sansa agreed. "My brother has a good head." An unusual pause followed. "He has a good _heart_ too," she added, and something in her voice alerted Tyrion. _She's heard about the way Daenerys dices with men's hearts,_ he realized. But was the girl worried for her brother's happiness, or for the fate of a northern kingdom ruled a love-struck king?

"They both have good hearts," he tried to conciliate. "It is precisely why their union will work."

Sansa remained silent and turned away again, looking out into the distance. There was a sharpness in her gaze, in her whole bearing when she spoke. "Jon is the only family I have left. I won't let anything hurt him."

This time, the warning was clear. The girl who lived off dreams and romance was gone. The fearful child had grown. Strong. How else? Had she been weak, she would have perished in King's Landing or under Ramsey's hands. Instead, she'd survived, mourned the death of her parents, the loss of her siblings, of her innocence. His mismatched eyes watched her, memorizing the long willowy gait, the way her auburn hair floated in fiery strands, strayed by wind.

 _Sweet, young, Sansa._ _If someone could manage to break through your cold exterior, would they ever find softness? Or is it too late?_

* * *

 _ **Castle Black  
**_

The noise of squealing hinges woke Jon from a fitful sleep. His candle was almost gone. Less than an inch jutted from a pool of warm melted wax, casting a soft light into the room. Maps covered his table, and letters, and drafted orders. He'd been up half the night poring over them before falling asleep.

As the door creaked open he sighed. It was past midnight. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he got up, expecting to see Davos or Tormund, but as the door finished opening, neither of the men entered. Instead, before him, clothed only in a sleeping gown, stood his wife. She didn't speak, nor move and Jon stepped forward the better to see her. She stood quite still, eyes large and teary as if she were about to cry, and for Jon it was simply awful to see that sadness on her face.

"Daenerys?" he asked, getting closer. "What is it?"

Her shoulders rose and fell with a faint sob and then tears began to run down her face. Jon opened his arms. At once, she pressed herself against him, her body small and soft. He hugged her close, enfolding her, then ran his gloved fingers through her hair. "What is it?" he whispered again, but this time it wasn't a question. It was more a reassuring caress of words. He could feel her heart beating, her breath catching. The protective feeling aroused in him was quickly mixing with desire.

"I had a dream," she confessed fighting to pull herself together. "A battle. Icy swords storming around, blinding with their brightness. I heard the clash of steel and smelled the blood ... the rotting corpses. They were all around us. And you..." Her voice broke into a sob, "You were dead, Jon." Now she was crying again, face buried in his chest. "You'd died alone, far away, and we'd had so little time together," she wailed. "Too little time.."

Unable to say anything, Jon simply held her until her breathing slowed. Then, like having a revelation, she looked up and moved into kissing him - slowly, gently, as if she didn't want to do it against his will.

At first, Jon's entire body tensed. He ought to stop her. His mind knew it was the sensible thing to do. But no other part of him cared about what was sensible. One by one, each of his muscles relaxed and his mouth opened beneath the pressure of her lips. She felt fluid and pliant against him, stretching upward to twine her arms around his neck. Unbidden, his hands slid up her spine, knotted in her hair, and in a flash the kiss stopped being gentle and became fierce. Like tinder flaring into a blaze.

He kissed her, feeding on the taste of her lips, of her mouth. With his gloved hands he stroked her neck, her cheek, and Dany whimpered. She was desperate to feel him, desperate. Urgently she pulled off the gloves and pressed his hand directly to her face - strong and warm against her tear-wet skin. Eyes closed, Dany turned her cheek and kissed his opened palm.

A flare of heat coursed through Jon at the contact. Her lips were hot and moist and he needed to taste them again. Angling her mouth he kissed her. Deeper. Harder. He kissed her long and fervently, until she shuddered with need. Then, he bent and picked her up.

He carried her across the room and into his bedchambers, and there they tumbled down onto the bed. She could feel the resistance of his muscles underneath the clothes, the feverish heat that came off his body. It was wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. Her hands tugged and pulled at the clothes, but these were clumsy, half-successful gestures. A soft cry came out of her and Jon understood her pain. He felt it also, the burning need to feel her naked against him. In a rage of impatience he ripped her nightgown, tore it open all the way down and then — they were one.

She arched and wrapped around him with a moan and maybe he cried out too. He didn't know. All thoughts were blown away as they took each other. Her fragile form, her tender bruisable flesh—it only incited him. Drove him mad. No imagined act he had ever committed in his secret dreams had ever been more feral than this.

He was losing control and Dany found herself reveling in it. She was writhing under him, panting and gasping, urging him on. Her hands were on his hips, her body meeting his movements with an increasing intensity. _Yes, yes!_ The sweetest tension was coiling inside her. Tighter, tighter. She was so close now, so close, almost—

With a sharp cry she arched off the bed and Jon covered her mouth with his. He kissed her, feeling her body clench and shudder, spilling inside her with a low sound of pleasure. And only after everything he had, everything he was, was spent within her, did they finally fall apart into the sheets.

* * *

 _ **Far North**_

The grayness of the day was fading to black. Shadows began to steal between the trees, the long fingers of the dusk. Dark came earlier. Each day seemed shorter than the last, and where the days were cold, the nights were bitter cruel.

Meera Reed sat with her back against a tree, sharpening her dagger on a whetstone. Beside her, Bran closed his eyes. It was too cold to talk and they dare not light a fire. Who knew what the light might summon from the darkness. Bran felt tired and burdened, but for all his tiredness sleep would not come. Instead there came the doubts.

"We shouldn't have crossed" said Bran, his voice hushed and strange. "Whatever spells kept the White Walkers at bay were voided by my passing. We shouldn't hav—"

"Don't!" Meera snapped. Her lips were blue, her cheeks red with the cold. Bran's own face had gone numb. "Don't torture yourself with thoughts like that!" Seeing the sadness on his face she adjusted her voice to a softer tone. "They would have crossed anyway... It was just a matter of time, Bran. This way, you can warn them. Give them a chance. Your brother..." she faltered, realizing the mistake, then went on regardless, "Your brother needs to learn the truth."

 _Jon._ The image of an young Eddard Stark flashed in Bran's mind _"…let them grow up close as brothers, with only love between them..."_ Jon. Kindhearted Jon. Raised a bastard, an outsider, when he should have been—

Bran's heart ached in realization of how much had been sacrificed. All the things his father did, all the lies he told to hide the truth.

"Yes," he whispered bitterly, "Jon needs to know. He must embrace his legacy, reunite with his own blood. Otherwise we fail."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading!**  
 **It's always a real joy to hear from you, so don't forget to let me know what you guys think.  
Until next time,**  
 **XoXo Roheline**


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